Playing Pygmalion
by TheHighestPie
Summary: Combeferre/Eponine, after an odd fashion. Hopefully not the horrific fluff you'd expect. Probably permanently abandoned; apologies - I'm not cut out for writing anything longer than oneshots.
1. An Unexpected Conversation

An exercise in arbitrary and impossible pairings simply because it intrigued me. If it's any comfort, I am not and probably never will be a "shipper" of any stripe, and the musical's pop princess Eppie-Sue makes me want to curl up and die. I normally stay far, far away from all things Eponine (although there certainly are exceptions), so heaven only knows why I decided to write this. The label "romance" is rather misleading. I consider it more of a character study of Combeferre than any sort of irritating love story.

That being said, go forth and read A Thenardier's Redemption by frustratedstudent. It's very good (one of the aforementioned "exceptions") and is one of the things that inspired this.

They're Hugo's.

EDIT: Upon actually bothering to consult my Brick I'm messing with the timeline again, so bear with me. Stick this first chapter in May 1831.

* * *

Enjolras had been restless that evening. Joly had come in with reports of how the government for which they had all had such high hopes at its conception not even a year ago was refusing to acknowledge that the long-ignored Parisian squalor was largely to blame for the city's ever-present lower class epidemics. The young leader of the Friends of the ABC immediate sank into a dark, brooding mood. He paced about the café and had on several occasions cleared his throat, apparently in preparation to make a speech, but each time had instead sunk scowling into a chair.

His angry temperament had quickly spread to the rest of the group. Grantaire's drunken rambling was rapidly becoming downright morbid and Joly had feverishly detected evidence of at least four new diseases about his person. Even Bossuet found himself unable to laugh about his latest misfortunes and had taken up a sullen, apathetic game of dominoes with Bahorel in a corner.

Combeferre wanted to go over and comfort his friend and leader but strongly suspected that promises of progress and pleas to be patient would not go over well tonight, not when Enjolras looked as though he would like nothing better than to sink a volley of bullets into the nearest government official. He took a book out of his well-used leather case but, unable to concentrate, decided to quietly excuse himself and go home.

Once outside, he breathed a small sigh of relief. He normally enjoyed the company of his friends but tonight's meeting had been nothing short of claustrophobic. He turned to start on the familiar path to his apartment when someone jumped out at him from the shadows, brandishing a knife threateningly.

"You there," cried a rough, high voice, "you're one of them students, right? Who go to meetings and hand out papers on the street and say the king is bad?"

Combeferre stepped back in alarm, but his fears subsided slightly after he had a chance to examine his attacker. She was dirty-faced street girl, small and painfully skinny. He felt a surge of pity for this example of all those doomed to live in poverty, although the sentiment was dampened slightly by the fact that she was pointing a knife at his chest. He greatly doubted that she would strike but proceeded carefully nonetheless.

"Why, yes, ah…Mademoiselle. Is there a problem? A question, perhaps, or –"

"Where's Monsieur Marius?"

Combeferre blinked in surprise. "I – what did you say?"

"Monsieur Marius! He goes to your meetings, don't he? Where is he?"

"Wait, you mean, ah…Pontmercy?" The girl nodded in frantic affirmation, and he laughed in surprise. "Heavens, he hasn't regularly attended our meetings in years! Courfeyrac still sees him on occasion, I think, but I almost never do. Actually, between you and me, I'm afraid that he may have taken it the wrong way when I disagreed with him during a discussion we were having about…Bonaparte, I think it was. No matter; it was long ago. But he certainly wasn't here tonight."

The girl's shoulders slumped in clear disappointment and she dropped her arm so that the knife pointed at the ground. "Oh! I thought I'd heard… He's never at home anymore and I don't know what's wrong and he don't even…" She trailed off miserably and Combeferre wondered what on earth could be going on.

Suddenly, the knife whipped up again. "I've been looking for him all day and Papa's going to kill me if I come home empty-handed. Please," she finished almost apologetically, giving the blade a half-hearted little wave, "gimme your money."

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I am but a poor student, and I fear that I just spent my last francs on dinner. I have more funds safe at home, of course, but you are welcome to the few sous I have on my person." He slowly extracted a handful of small coins from his pocket and offered them to the girl. She peered at them critically.

"That's it? That's all you got? You're supposed to be rich!" she accused.

"You must forgive me my light purse," he murmured ironically. "I so hate it when I disappoint young pickpockets."

She glared at him sullenly. "What's in that bag then?"

"Only books. To me, their contents are priceless, but I doubt you could make much of a profit by selling their physical shell."

"Lemme see."

"All right, then." He knelt and began pulling volumes out of the leather case. "Here we have my anatomy text…and Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind, by the Marquis de Condorcet…and a report on the economic conditions of dockworkers…and some pamphlets…oh," he pulled a very slim and well-thumbed volume out of the case, "and this, of course."

The girl's hand shot forward, curious to see what could be so taken for granted as a part of this man's collection. "Lemme see that."

"Of course," Combeferre replied, handing it over to her. "Mademoiselle, do you know how to read?"

"Of course," she echoed indignantly. "It says…The Dec…Declara…tion of the, the…Rights of M-man and the Ci-ti-zen. Citizen."

"… 'and the Constitution of the Year II.' Very good."

"Wait, I've heard of this before!"

"I'm sure you have."

"What's it mean?"

Combeferre had not expected to give a street speech at this hour, especially not to someone who had moments ago been trying to rob him (although he noted with relief that the knife was once again pointing forgotten at the ground), but decided to plow forward nonetheless.

"The first is a document that outlines the most fundamental rights that every human being deserves. It says, in part, that everyone is born equal and therefore should be given the same chances in life."

She frowned thoughtfully. "But people aren't equal. Everyone's different, you know, smarter or stronger or whatever than other people."

Combeferre was impressed. "Good, but they should still be treated the same by the law."

The girl was obviously intrigued. "Tell me more."

"You're clearly quite intelligent, Mademoiselle. If given the chance, you could have a very good life. However, you, like so many other unfortunates, are poor. As you just demonstrated to me, you must steal to stay alive. Your mind and your talents are wasted. The group to which I belong believes that this is unjust, that a person's place in life should be determined by what they do and how hard they work, not by their parentage."

"But what's that got to do with the law treatin' people the same?"

Once again, Combeferre was surprised by this beggar girl's astuteness. "Pretend that a rich man, one you had never seen in your life, accused you of stealing from him. You would be brought to court and would honestly say that you were innocent. However, if the man persisted in saying that you were the thief, who would win the case? Who would the court believe?"

"They'd listen to the rich man."

"Yes! But why?"

"I…I don't know. 'Cause he's rich."

"Exactly! That is just one minute example of how our entire legal system is biased towards the wealthy. You are at a double disadvantage, Mademoiselle, because you are a woman."

"So what're you doing about it?"

Combeferre knew that he should explain more but was quite tired and did not want to stay around long enough that he would be forced to interact with one of his moody comrades as they left the meeting. "Forgive me, but I must get home; it is getting late and I have classes tomorrow, but can you meet me in the Luxembourg near the statue of St. Bathilde at 11 o'clock on Saturday? I can tell you more then."

"I'll be there."

"Excellent," Combeferre smiled. "But wait, I'm afraid my manners have been terrible and I don't know your name."

"I'm Eponine."

"Pleased to meet you, Eponine. My name is Combeferre."

"Monsieur Combeferre," Eponine muttered, trying it out on her lips. "Can't I know your first name too?"

"I am no lantern lawyer and, as such, prefer to be known only as Combeferre," he chuckled.

"…lantern lawyer?"

"Camille Desmoulins. He was…oh, no matter. There is so much for you to learn! But Saturday. Take this," he said, extracting a pamphlet printed with the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen from his pile and presenting it to her, "and I will see you then."

"Oh, thank you! Good bye!" Eponine spun around and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Combeferre to wonder what he was going to try to put in the mind of this strange young girl.


	2. Bribery and Inspiration

Combeferre: kindly, inspiring teacher, or condescending, naïve twit absorbed in his own meaningless philosophy? You decide!

Perhaps the only adequate response comes from Hugo (who, incidentally, is the guy who owns the characters portrayed here): "Strange contradictions of the human heart in its most sublime moments!"

Enjoy.

* * *

Combeferre sat on a small wooden bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg. It was a pleasant spring morning, the kind that he suspected Jean Prouvaire would spend staring at passing clouds and writing about the beauty of love. He began to idly ponder what the rest of his friends were doing at that moment. Courfeyrac would doubtless use the fair weather to enchant some new mistress. Enjolras would – well, Enjolras would take minimal notice of the welcome sunshine and would act just as he would on any other day.

And Combeferre? Generally, he would use an opportunity like this to wander about until he found a quiet, appealing place to sit down, think, and read. At the present moment, he was undeniably sitting down, but his mind was on anything but the newspaper draped across his lap. Today, he was, of all things, waiting in a public park to meet with a would-be pickpocket so he could teach her about social issues.

He had promised agreed to meet that girl, Eponine, here, but the city's church bells had tolled out 11 o'clock several minutes ago and she was nowhere to be seen. He supposed it had been silly of him to expect that he could convince some urchin to come and learn from him after only hearing a few worn promises regarding human rights, but she had seemed so intrigued. He had thought that, when he spoke of equality and the future, he had seen a spark in her sunken eyes. Such sparks can either turn into a beam of light piercing the darkness of ignorance, light a fuse that will spread and ignite a populace into rebellion, or die before transferring to a wick. He feared that her curiosity had been extinguished as soon as she had returned to whatever horrific life she led.

Still, every human life is worth saving, every soul worth a few moments of attention, so Combeferre elected to hold his ground for a few minutes longer before finding some other pursuit. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to luxuriously bask in the warmth of the sun.

"Monsieur Combeferre?" someone questioned hesitantly, mere inches from his left ear.

Combeferre jumped in surprise and Eponine giggled at the undignified little squack that escaped his lips.

"Oh, no, 'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you might be sleepin' 'cause your eyes were closed and I wanted to say sorry for being late and everything but I didn't want to wake you so I came closer to see if you were awake or not and –"

"Hush, Eponine. It's all right; there's nothing to forgive. Please," he gestured to the empty space beside him on the bench, "have a seat, Mademoiselle."

The girl hopped lightly over the back of the bench. Combeferre studied her momentarily. It appeared that she had made some attempt to brush her knotted hair and, maybe it was just the brighter light, but her face seemed a bit cleaner. He feared that her teeth were beyond the help of any mortal, but still, progress.

"How are you on this fine day?"

"Good, Monsieur Combeferre. You?"

"I'm doing quite well, thank you, especially now that I have company. Are you perchance hungry?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "No more 'n usual. What do you care?"

"It just so happens that I picked up a bit of food on my way here," he explained picking up a small bundle from beside him and unwrapping the paper around it. "It's not much, just some bread and cheese, but it sounds very pleasant right now. However, it would be quite rude to eat in front of you without offering you anything, so," he presented her with a small loaf of bread of middling quality and some soft white cheese, "I was wondering if you'd be willing to join me."

She tried to appear disinterested in the meal before but failed miserably. Finally, her hand shot out and she snatched the loaf from Combeferre's open hand.

"Wait, no! Not like that, Mademoiselle. Please, hand the loaf back from me so that you may accept it properly."

She held the bread possessively to her skinny chest and scooted backwards on the bench. "What's this, some kinda trick? Whaddya mean by givin' a hungry girl food then takin' it back?" She appeared almost ready to run away; Combeferre hoped that he hadn't misjudged her.

"I'm afraid that you misunderstand me, Mademoiselle. I have no intention of keeping the bread – I promise I will give it back to you – I just want you to accept it properly."

She bit her lip but hesitantly have the loaf back to Combeferre. "Thank you. Now, we are friends, I hope, or at least we will be, and as such, there is no need for you to act as though you are stealing this from me. It is freely given, so you do nothing wrong in accepting it, but people will never trust you if you insist on acting suspiciously."

"Fine for you to say, but where I come from, you gotta get things quick 'fore they're gone, else you'll go hungry."

"Nevertheless, what would you rather do with your life: stay where you are now or become a real member of a great civilization?"

"What's it matter to you?"

"We can discuss that later, if you so desire, but first, please agree to share this meal with me. Accept it courteously and enjoy the fact that you may appreciate it openly instead of having to sneak it into the shadows."

"You don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Perhaps. But I do know that I wish to share food and a conversation with a lovely young lady on a fine spring day in the Luxembourg." He smiled gently, hoping to mollify her.

Eponine looked at Combeferre and then back at the bread and then, the concentration evident on her face, she slowly stretched out her hand and delicately took the loaf back from him. Combeferre nodded, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and settled it across her skirt, trying to ignore how ridiculous the silk square appeared against the filthy rags.

"Thank you, Monsieur."

Combeferre grinned in triumph. "You are very welcome, Mademoiselle. It is truly my pleasure." He sat and watched her eat for a few moments. It was clear that she was making an effort not to devour the loaf too quickly. "Manners, Mademoiselle Eponine," he murmured, handing her a piece of the cheese, "will make all of the difference in the world. Without them, you are just another, if you will excuse me, nameless filthy urchin. However, with them, you are a unfortunate young woman whom people will be far more eager to help. Prove to them that you are better than your situation would indicate, and they will help you to rise in the world."

"Mama taught me manners when I was little," Eponine replied quietly. "She taught me readin' and writin' too, but there's not much use for 'em on the streets. You lose 'em when you're 'round beggars and criminals all the time."

"I'm sure that's true. However, manners are simply knowledge and habits. As such, they can be easily learned, which brings us to why I have asked you to come here. I have no intention of showing you the finer points of high etiquette – indeed, many of them are unknown to me – but instead to teach you about the world that we live in.

"Education is key. In our society, it, not wealth or titles, is the thing that most divides the upper and lower classes. Those who know letters, arithmetic, history, science, they are the ones who are able to find a calling, well-paying employment, and start a stable family.

"The people who never learn such things are looked down on by the rest of the world. They must find menial or dishonest labor. They fill our jails and our slums, and they never understand what they are missing.

"You see, Mademoiselle, education does not just teach facts, it creates ideas. Ideas are dangerous; they whisper promises of tomorrow, of progress, of utopias. And once a man (or a woman, of course) understands what he can be, what civilization can be, he has a greater goal to which he can devote himself, for which he can fight. And _that_ is what changes the world. _That_ is the real revolution."

Combeferre's pulse was much faster than it should have been for a seated person and there was a distant look in his eye. He looked at the pitiful girl beside him on the bench and saw in her the future. He would show her the potential of both herself and the human race and she would go forth and teach others. Slowly, slowly he could see the armies of the light swelling in rank until they one day covered the Earth.

Eponine looked confused and slightly intimidated by all of these lofty promises. "So then, Monsieur Combeferre," she asked in a hushed voice, "where d'we start?"

Combeferre reached beneath the bench and grabbed a slim book with large type. The girl wrinkled her nose disdainfully when she saw it. "_A Child's History of France_? This is for kids!"

"Nevertheless, we must start somewhere. Please read it aloud to me."

"But this is too easy!"

"Then show me how simple it is for you so that we can move on to more challenging material. Now, read!"


	3. Disturbing the Peace

I lied. I elected to stick in a bit of fluffiness after all for pacing purposes. Call it character development or meaningless filler - s'your call.

On a totally different note, you get treated to some mini-digressions related to, among other things, the early history of matches. In case you get confused, "Congreves," "Lucifers," and "friction lights" were all names for matches before anyone decided to call them matches.

Thanks as always for the reviews and for reading thus far.

Hot air balloons come from the Montgolfier brothers. Matches come from a whole bunch of people, including John Walker, Samuel Jones, and Charles Sauria. The characters come from Hugo.

* * *

Their first lesson of sorts ended after an hour and a half, when Eponine suddenly became very tense and announced that she needed to leave. Combeferre did not question her reasons but managed to get a promise from her that they would meet again at the same time and place the following week. The lunches and lessons were quickly increasing in frequency and becoming a welcome routine. However, they could also be very trying. The girl was dedicated, in her own way, but also unpredictable and easily frustrated. 

Two days ago – approximately three weeks after they first met – Combeferre had informed Eponine that she had been holding a pen incorrectly for her entire life. She had attempted to shrug the matter off but he refused to relent, warning her that using an incorrect grip would cause her hand to become a shriveled, arthritic claw before she grew old. For whatever reason, this had caused her to fly into a rage. She screamed at him that she was poor, so her hands would grow old anyway, that he was an evil and stupid tyrant, and that he was lucky that she didn't dump the inkwell all over his fine clothes. Thus, he had elected to take a slightly different approach to her education this time.

He harbored to real doubts that she would return, but as she somewhat sheepishly approached the usual bench, he realized that he had been wrong to question her determination and loyalty. After all, he alleviated her two-fold starvation by nourishing both her mind and body. Yet, he reflected (even as his inner Prouvaire chided him for carrying a mediocre metaphor too far), a slight change in diet would hurt no one.

"Good day, Eponine." He stood and bowed as she sat down beside him.

" 'Lo."

"I have something that I'd like to show you. He reached into a wicker basket that he had brought and pulled out a collapsible silk sphere held in shape by several layers of thin, horizontal wire rings. There was an opening at the bottom of it, beneath which dangled a little cup.

"A Chinese lantern?"

"Not quite, but wait. First," he set the object down and pulled a match from his pocket, "do you know what this is?"

"Course. It's a Lucifer."

"Good. Let me tell you how it works. Press your hands together and rub them as quickly as you can." She did as she was told. "What happens?"

"They get hot."

"You may stop now. That heat that you are feeling is called friction. Now, there are chemicals on the tip of the Lucifer, which is also known as a friction light, and when those chemicals are rubbed against a rough surface, they become very hot and burst into flame. Do you understand?" She nodded. "Would you like to light it?"

"Oh, no. Lucifers scare me. And they smell bad."

"Ah, but this is a special, new Lucifer. The old Congreves are coated with antimony sulfide, potassium chlorate, gum, and starch. _They_ had unpredictable flames and an unbearable odor. However, just a few months ago, a chemistry student in Dôle named Charles Sauria discovered that Lucifers made with white phosphorus burn easily and steadily, and have no smell. It is all the talk among the science students, and we have been doing our best to reproduce and improve upon his discovery." He smiled proudly and presented the match to her. "I made this myself. So, would you like to light it? Go on."

Eponine examined the match for a moment before taking it gingerly in her hands, apparently unsure whether she should be impressed by the invention or afraid that the homemade contrivance would spontaneously combust in her palms. Finally, she tightened her grip, screwed up her face, and struck the little stick against the rough wood of the bench. She gave a little jump as the tip smoothly burst into flame. Then, she tentatively sniffed the air, and laughed in wonder. "It really doesn't smell bad at all! That's amazing!"

"That's science," he retorted with a grin.

"What about the lantern-thing, then?"

"The balloon! I had almost forgotten it!" However, instead of lifting the little contraption, he pulled bright green bottle out of his basket. In the bottom of the bottle sloshed a bit of liquid.

Eponine stared at him in absolute shock. "Absinthe? I…won't have any! I'll leave if you're gonna be drinking!"

"Oh for heavens…no, I took this from an acquaintance of mine. I certainly don't drink absinthe. This is going to be our fuel."

"Fuel?"

"Watch." Combeferre took a wad of cloth out of the basket and placed it in a cup at the bottom of the contraption. Next, he poured the bit of absinthe over the cloth, being careful not to let it touch the edge of the lantern above it. Grabbing the top of the lantern, he allowed the sphere above the cup to open to its full size.

"This, Mademoiselle, is a miniature hot-air balloon. Perhaps you have heard of them." She nodded excitedly. "Balloons are the future. They give men wings. I believe that we will one day be able to steer them as sailors sail ships. The science behind them is artfully simple: hot air is less dense than cold air, so it rises. The balloon traps the hot air and thus it soars." He pulled out another match and lit the alcohol-soaked cloth. The two of them sat perfectly still, watching until the cloth between the delicate rings bulged out from the air pressure inside.

"Now," he murmured, handing her a string attached to the balloon, "flight." He released it, and it gently rose upward until it was bobbing on the top of its tether. She stared, totally enchanted by the sight.

"I can talk to you all day about history and politics and the need for a virtuous citizenry, but science is the future. Science is proof; science is progress. It is only through the concrete and irrefutable that we–"

"Quiet," she interrupted. "You're ruinin' it."

And so, for once, they sat in total silence, marveling at the little wonder drifting in the wind and raining bits of ash down upon their heads. Combeferre suppressed the nagging sense that she didn't really care about the details of what he was teaching her, and, once he was able to quiet his mind, he found beneath the layers of knowledge and dissatisfaction and responsibility an odd sense of peace. _I am content_, he realized. _A dangerous emotion, I know, but I am, at least for now, content._

A gruff shout cut through his reverie. "You, what do you think you're doing? What is that?"

An angry policeman approached to two of them, eyeing the balloon suspiciously. "Well? People have been complaining about your device. It is alarming them."

Eponine stood, tightly grasping the string. "So?" she asked calmly. Combeferre slowly rose to stand beside her, marveling to himself about how ironic it would be to get on the wrong side of the law not for his politics but for a physics demonstration.

"It looks dangerous. In God's name, it's on fire! I need to take it. Only the military should have devices like that. Give it to me, or I'll arrest you for disturbing the peace."

A quiet, sublimely defiant smile overtook Eponine's face. "Never," she whispered, and let the string go. A gust of wind made the tether elude the policeman's clumsily grasping fingers.

"Why, you," he spluttered. "I'll…"

Combeferre and Eponine never heard the rest of the threat. Laughing, they turned and fled, Eponine swiftly leading the way and Combeferre following breathlessly at her heels. The man roared, but they were already gone. They ran out of the gardens and into the streets, dodging and whooping until they lost each other and themselves in the riot known as Paris.

* * *

An interesting/ironic note: Combeferre was, as is far too usual, wrong on one very important point. It turned out that white phosphorus was highly poisonous and caused a whole host of health problems as the new matches became highly popular, including a veritable epidemic of sick/maimed workers and deformed children. They also made smoking grow immensely in popularity. He died before white phosphorus's effects were apparent, but if he had stuck around at the Necker for a few more years, he would have probably started to come across cases of "phossy jaw," a terrible disease that made people's jaws rot away and glow greenish-white in the dark. Progress? 


	4. Assumptions

The new summary quotation comes from _The Love Affairs of Great Musicians, Volume 2_, by Rupert Hughes. It reads, in its entirety:

**"The truth was that Wagner, as so many another creative genius, spent his love chiefly upon the beings that he begot within his own heart. Every genius is more or less a Pygmalion, and his own imagination is the Aphrodite that gives life to the Galateas that he carves."**

I ran across it by accident the other day, but it seemed appropriate. You'll have to bear with me for a few more chapters and judge for yourself how well it applies to this story.

You know you wanted to see the Amis again. They're so much fun to write. I never really realized until now how much my R figment despises my 'Ferre figment, regardless of their incarnations. Curious, but understandable.

The characters are Hugo's. The ideas are mine. The egotism isn't just Napoleon's.

* * *

Combeferre had a question that he wished to ask his friends, although he had not yet bothered to do so. Which is better: to slightly and indirectly elevate the lives of many people, or to truly save one individual in need? He held no illusions about his chances for survival should the revolution take place, and knowing that he would probably die, he wanted the comfort of knowing that he had left some sort of legacy behind him. A man's life, he thought ruefully, should amount to more than a trail of successful essays and deftly dissected cadavers. Thus, in the months (maybe years, with luck) he had left, how could he best help humanity?

There was something infinitely egotistical, he had realized, in martyrdom. To say I am better dead than alive; I will die as no one else can; I will be a symbol and a rallying cry for the ages, well, was it really that far from when Napoleon placed a crown on his own brow? Given the probability of failure, he had moments when he seriously doubted the efficacy of what would probably amount to the ABC's glorious collective suicide, but he had long since thrown his lot in with the spiritual heirs of the Revolution. He believed in their cause with all of his heart and did not regret his stand.

However, he secretly trembled at the thought of being useless and forgotten. His greatest fear was that he would one day face the bayonets and cannon fire only to realize that his only gift to life was his death.

Perhaps that explained his fascination with the girl.

That had to be the reason, or else why would he give her a second thought beyond her possible usefulness to the ABC? He was a very, very busy man, yet he still managed to devote several hours each week to passing on his knowledge and principles to her. He could certainly use his time and talents more efficiently, yet working with her gave him a sort of uniquely personal gratification that none of his other endeavors ever had.

And yet, why her? Eponine was, kindly put, a strange girl, Combeferre thought as he made his way once again to the Luxembourg. He did his best not to judge someone who lived in circumstances so different from his own, but she by turns as enchanting and as grotesque in both manners and appearance as a creature from an old folklore. However, despite her frequent ramblings and tendency to leave without warning (sometimes only exclaiming "Oh, it's him! It's him!" before running off with wide eyes and a blissful smile), she had already made remarkable progress. Over two months had passed since that unexpectedly fateful night when Eponine had tried to rob him, and she was already forming opinions for her own. Combeferre felt that she could easily become an invaluable resource for his political group, getting the pulse of the elements of Paris' lowest and most volatile classes.

Moreover, he felt that the girl was becoming physically healthier. Just the meager meals he brought her with every lesson seemed to be doing her a world of good. Her cheeks were less hollow, and he was convinced that her unmistakably improved hygiene reflected the increased self-respect that inevitably accompanies learning.

The increased financial demand that came with frequently feeding Eponine affected Combeferre, but he did not mind. It mattered little to him that he had to compensate by buying coarser breads and cheaper wines when dining out, but his astute friends quickly noticed the change. Although they would not have mocked him if they thought he was going through financial difficulty, they took the change accompanied by his increased, unexplained absences to mean that he had found a mistress. Sensing intrigue, they had moved in for the attack the previous night at the Musain.

"'No, no fish, thank you,' again, Combeferre? My friend, just because you support the people doesn't mean you have to eat like them!" Bahorel had cried, ignoring Feuilly's snort of exasperation.

"I think he has found another use for his resources. It is clear that our dear philosopher has finally found a woman and has taken to buying her trinkets in order to keep her favor. But come now, why such secrecy?" Courfeyrac implored. "Tell us about her! Does she have any pretty friends in search of a dashing young man such as myself?"

"Even if I desired a mistress, I would not tolerate one whose affection depended on petty gifts." Combeferre replied evenly. "And I certainly wouldn't leave any of her friends to your merciless charms."

Courfeyrac would not be deterred. "I suppose not. Your type of woman would more likely be a bookseller than a grisette. The two of you would spend your dull lives wasting away in libraries, pretending to care about dead languages. Ha! Unless," he grinned wickedly, "there are unexpected, passionate depths beneath that dusty exterior. I suspect you've been wasting your money on gambling and whores!"

"Courfeyrac!" Combeferre spluttered in shock. "That is most…I would never…"

"Ah, yes, you've built up a nice image for yourself." It appeared that Grantaire had decided to join in the fun. Why did this always seem to happen to _him_? "You show no vices and try to live in total self-denial. Once people think you are sincere, you can get away with anything. We are all hypocrites, and those with the purest faces have the most secrets, I say. Combeferre buys whores! Combeferre will despoil your sisters! Combeferre–"

"That's enough." Enjolras stood from the table where he was writing, and Grantaire's raspy voice died in his throat. "Combeferre, you are still devoted to our cause?"

"Of course. Heart and soul."

"And you have done nothing that would compromise your own integrity or the image of this society?"

"No. Never. You know that I would not."

"Then your business is your own. Leave him be," he commanded the rest of the room. "We have more important matters to discuss."

"You're no fun," Courfeyrac muttered at Enjolras. "I'm glad I'm neither god nor saint like you two are. It must be so terribly boring."

However, Combeferre reflected as he adjusted the large box beneath his arm while walking to the Luxembourg, Courfeyrac had been more correct about the "trinkets" than he ever could have guessed. Simple meals and the occasional book hardly counted as lovers' gifts, but this bore far more resemblance.

He had written to his mother in the provinces, asking if she could send a dress and basic accoutrements that his sister had outgrown, something in good condition but not too fancy. He claimed, not inaccurately, that he was going to make a charitable donation of it. Admittedly, Chandelle was a full two years younger than Eponine, but the street girl was so small and thin that he was sure she would fit in her castoffs. His mother responded with her typical charitable impulse and sent him three practical everyday outfits and one dress of a slightly nicer cut.

Eponine was already waiting at their customary bench. She looked at the package under her tutor's arm with a kind of trusting confusion. "Hello there. What's that?"

"Take it," he smiled broadly, placing the box in her lap. "Open it."

He was surprised by how heavily his heart beat in his chest as she pulled at the strings holding the box shut. She lifted the lid and her eyes grew suddenly very wide. Mouth open in disbelief, she pulled the dresses out one by one. Upon reaching the finest of them, blue silk with hints of delicate white embroidery, she looked up at Combeferre in confusion.

"I…don't understand."

"They're for you, Mademoiselle."

"But why?

He did not speak the unnecessary – _it may be nearly August now, but winter is coming on all too soon, and you'll freeze with only that terrible ragged skirt, threadbare shawl, and practically indecent blouse_ – and tried to ignore the shameful – _you are an embarrassment to me_. However, there were other reasons as well. "I have been trying to teach you to elevate yourself, but it must be very hard for you to try to act like a lady – in the best sense of the word, that is; I do not wish to tie you to restrictive social conventions forbidding women to have minds of their own – to act like a lady if you do not feel the part. Therefore, I have acquired some decent clothing for you." He shrugged ruefully. "I hope you do not mind that they used to belong to my sister. She is a neat girl, so they should still be in good condition."

Eponine gaped at him for a moment longer, set the box carefully on the ground, then leapt at Combeferre with a shriek of joy, wrapping her arms about his neck.

"Oh! Thank you so much! Mama would so like to dress me pretty but she can't 'cause we don't have the money and 'Zelma can wear these too she's almost my size and you'd so like to meet her she's a good girl. But now I'll wear these and I'll look like a real lady and maybe people will listen to me when I talk! Thank you thank you I'll do whatever you want 'though I can't ever pay you back. You're so wonderful and kind Monsieur Combeferre! No one's ever been this nice to me ever!"

Infected by her excitement, Combeferre grinned; he didn't think he'd ever seen her this happy. However, he could tell that, with her in this state, they would never get anything done. He carefully extricated himself and looked into her shining eyes. "Mademoiselle, why don't you take these home. I would very much appreciate it if you would wear one of them the next time we meet (Thursday, no?), and then we can take a walk through the gardens together. Would you like that?" She nodded furiously. "Thursday, then. Good day!"

"Oh! Good day, Monsieur! They're so wonderful, you're so wonderful, thank you!"


	5. Harsh Realities

A brief interlude – possibly the only thing that'll be seen from Eponine's POV. Squint right and you might be able to see the beginnings of a real, live plot.

Not much else to say, for a change. You know the drill: they're Hugo's characters, feedback makes me love you, etc etc.

* * *

"What's in that box, girl? Is it loot?"

Eponine edged into her family's tiny room in the dilapidated Gorbeau house, hoping that she could show Mama the pretty dresses that she now had. However, she opened the door to see Papa and Montparnasse sitting at their uneven wooden table; her mother and sister were clearly gone.

"It's clothing, Papa. I didn't steal it. It's…a gift."

"Give me that," he growled, tearing the box from her arms and setting it on the table. He lifted the lid and peered critically at the contents beneath it. "Not bad, girl, but you could've done better. Next time, when you steal, steal something that's really worth selling."

"But I didn't steal it! It's for me. A gift. And I…I won't let you sell it."

Thenardier squinted at his daughter in surprise that had not yet turned to anger. Montparnasse smoothly rose from his chair and began to inspect the dresses. His hands would not smudge them as Thenardier's would. "These are nice outfits, 'Ponine, but I wonder where you got them. Who would give something like this to a worthless little guttersnipe like you?"

"A friend. He's just a friend. A nice student who's been helping me with my history and my letters. I promise, only a friend."

"A friend," Montparnasse sneered, stepping towards her. "'Just a friend,' who gives you pretty dresses and takes up your time. I can only guess what you've been doing for this 'friend' to deserve such treatment." He grabbed her hair and pulled her face close to his. "You're mine, 'Ponine! Show me the worthless bourgeois and I'll slit his tender throat!"

"No, no! It's not like that at all! He's a nice gentleman, 'Parnasse; he's never touched me! Don't hurt him! Let me go!"

"Wait, boy," Thenardier commanded slyly. "Let her go. I see an opportunity here." He turned to his shaking daughter. "A gentleman, you say? Is he rich?"

"He has some money but he's not a lord. He studies at the University because he wants to be a doctor and a lawyer and a statesman and a scientist and a whole bunch of other things too."

"Still, he has the dough to give you these."

"…yes. And he has rich friends, I think."

"Well then, girl, you can keep your pretty dresses for now. I don't like that you've been wasting your time on learning," he spat derisively, "but we may be able to make a profit out of this yet. Look your best, smile at him – eh, not too broadly with that ugly maw of yours –, do what he says. Gain his trust, and we'll take care of the rest."

"You won't hurt him, will you? He cares about us poor people. He wants to help us. He's a good man."

"God forbid we should harm such a person. What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't, I think. It's Combeferre."

"Combeferre. Good job, girl. You may not be as useless as I thought."

"Combeferre," Montparnasse echoed darkly. "Now, put this on," he ordered, throwing the blue silk at Eponine. "I want to see how you look respectable."

"Respectable," laughed Thenardier. "You and your bourgeois can have your little fantasies, but this, girl," he stated with a meaningful glance at Montparnasse as he slipped out of the apartment, "this is your reality."


	6. Freethinkers

I never would have guessed that a few lines of Montparnasse would make people so happy! I fear we're back to the Gardens again, but so it goes. At least you now have a hope that this will be more than just sitting on a bench and listening to Combeferre moralize and try to indoctrinate. Good times.

I have something to admit: almost everything up to this point was pre-written. I have a pretty good idea of where I'm going from here, but updates will probably be less frequent because I'll be writing as I go along. Sorry for any future delays.

Now with 800 percent more Robespierre and proto-socialism! Welcome to the Montagnard movement, folks.

The stuff at the beginning comes from the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen. How much it actually applied to women is debatable, but details. Hugo would give me funny looks if he learned what I'm doing to his poor characters, but they're still his.

* * *

There were, Combeferre thought, few simple pleasures as unexpectedly rewarding as strolling through the Luxembourg on a fine August morning with a lovely young woman on one's arm. To be fair, Eponine was no beauty – the hairs escaping her bonnet were lank, her eyes had protruded disconcertingly until he had become used to them, and her complexion and frame bespoke borderline starvation despite his best efforts – but it was remarkable how much just a new wardrobe had done for her appearance. It seemed to him that her posture was straighter, her demeanor steadier, and her smile wider (although she wisely did her best to cover that truly unfortunate set of teeth). However, what really mattered was not how she looked but what she was saying.

Combeferre quickly glanced about them to make sure no one was following them too closely, then leaned in and requested softly, "Say it again."

Eponine nodded and grinned. "The representatives of the French people, organized as a National Assembly, believing that the negl – no – ignorance, neglect or contempt of the rights of man are the sole… sole cause of public calamities and of the, the…"

"Corruption."

"That's it! …the corruption of governments have determined to set forth in a solemn declaration the natural, unalienable, and sacred rights of man, in order that this declaration, being constantly before all the members of the Social body, shall remind them continually of their rights and duties; in order-"

"Very good, but that's far enough. You spoke of the "sacred rights of man." Does that mean that the things listed apply only to males?"

"No! It's for women too!"

"Precisely. Now, article eleven says, "The free communication of…"

"Of…of ideas and opinions is one of the most precious of the rights of man."

"Article four: "Liberty consists in…"

"…the freedom to do everything which harms no one else."

"Yes! And what does that mean?"

"Exactly what it says. I can do whatever I want so long as it don't–"

"'Doesn't,' Eponine, not 'don't.'"

" 'm sorry. So long as it _doesn't_ harm no one…er, anyone else."

Combeferre beamed at her. "There is an article which states very explicitly that the government can not limit your liberty as you just defined it. What does that article say?"

"Number…five?" Combeferre nodded. "Law can only prohibit such actions as are hurtful to society?"

"It's not a question; it's a ringing proclamation! Say it as such! Only," he added, as a passing gentleman shot them a questioning look, "perhaps quietly."

"Law can only prohibit such actions as are hurtful to society!"

"Oh, Eponine! How far you've come!"

"Thank you, Monsieur Combeferre."

At that moment, they passed a cluster of three young men. Combeferre thought he might have recognized one from the medical school. The two groups acknowledged each other politely as they passed; Combeferre tipped his hat without even thinking, and the other young men bowed slightly at Eponine. He felt his companion stiffen at the strangers' actions.

"What's wrong?" he questioned when they were out of earshot.

"Hypocrites!" she hissed angrily. "I recognized the tallest of 'em. Sometimes, he sees me in the street and yells rude things at me. He didn't realize it was me, I don't think. When your revolution – our revolution – happens, I'll clap from the foot of the guillotine when he loses his head, when all the people like him are killed."

"Eponine, no! Where did you get such ideas? 'Revolution, but civilization,' I say. Even if the revolution must happen, which I pray it does not, it must be conducted with the utmost respect for human life!"

"Yes, but what if talking's not enough? I know lots of people think it won't be. How about this? 'Terror, without which virtue is powerless. Terror is nothing other than justice, prompt, severe, inflexible; it is therefore an emanation of virtue; it is not so much a special principle as it is a consequence of the general principle of democracy applied to our country's most urgent needs.'"

Combeferre stopped and gaped at her in disbelief. "Robespierre?" She glared back at him defiantly. "Where did you learn Robespierre?"

"You tell me to better myself. Don't get mad at me for studying!"

"No, I would never! But…_Robespierre_."

"Yes! Robespierre! He was important, right? Then I should know about him."

"Of course, but that doesn't mean you need to support his views!"

" 'Course not. But I always heard people sayin' bad things about him, so I thought I should learn more. And I did. I think I like what he says. You can't have good things happen if the bad people are still around. They need to be killed, 'cause they're not gonna give up power willingly. I know I wouldn't if I was rich."

"A debate over the necessity of terror," murmured Combeferre, guiding Eponine to a bench where he hoped no one would hear them. "I would not have anticipated…yet I am glad we have reached this point. So, Mademoiselle, tell me exactly what you think of Robespierre. Perhaps we may reach some kind of consensus."

"Everyone says that he was evil and bloodthirsty. He executed a lot of people, but I don't think he enjoyed it. He never watched people die for fun or anything. And way more people died in Napoleon's battles than in the Terror, right?"

"Yes, but isn't it different to execute an innocent person than to kill an enemy soldier in battle? I despise war, our group is striving to reach a future when there will be no more war, but the guillotine is still more horrific than the cannon, I think."

"But the people killed weren't innocent! They were aristocrats and counterrevolutionaries trying to hurt the Republic."

"All of them? Is it really a crime to be born rich?"

"You've never been hungry like I have, Monsieur Combeferre. Sometimes, I see carriages ride past when I'm starving and I feel like no one could blame me for leaping in and stealing their gold because they have so much of it to spare and I don't have any and that's not fair at all."

Combeferre suppressed the surge of sympathy and disgust that threatened to overwhelm him; this was too important for him to be silenced by compassion. "But does that mean that they deserve to die? Are they criminals because of their birth?"

"Do you remember when we first met? You told me that the world is unjust because any rich man could throw me in jail if he wanted to because he's powerful. If they can call me a criminal just 'cause I'm poor, then I can call them bad just 'cause they're rich. They don't care if I live or die and I feel the same way about them."

He nodded understandingly. "It is a terrible situation for all; you lose your dignity and they lose their souls. But what solution would you propose?"

"Why, we'll have our revolution. When we win, we'll tell the rich people that they have to share their money now. If they don't, we'll kill them."

"And how will you decide how to distribute the wealth?"

"I…everyone will get the same amount, I guess."

"Regardless of where they work or what they do? I fear that you are too utopian, even for me. The sad truth is that people will not work hard, if at all, if they are guaranteed their wages regardless. The economy would fail, and we must first have prosperity in order for that prosperity to be divided."

"…oh," she replied in a small voice, looking at her feet. However, her gaze quickly shot back up with redoubled fierceness. "There has to be something we can do!"

"Keep thinking, then. What is your solution, if we are to both exterminate want and encourage production?"

"Well, I would make sure that no one was starving, at least. No one should have to die because they're poor." She looked at him questioningly, searching for approval. He simply stared back, willing her to continue. Her brow furrowed as she bit her lower lip in concentration. "People…should be rewarded if they work hard. There shouldn't be any kings or nobles living at Versailles, but…better food and better homes and stuff. Carriages for people who work really hard. And school for everyone, right?"

Combeferre beamed proudly. "Yes! That's exactly it: basic provisions for living for all, luxuries for those who earn them. It's more complicated than that, but you have the idea."

"And if the noblemen try to stay rich when they don't deserve it, we'll kill them!"

"You bloodthirsty little radical!"

"What? I don't see any other way of making them give up their power."

Combeferre sighed, familiar with such arguments, albeit ones presented in a rather more coherent and eloquent fashion. Regardless, he knew that the time for which he had been preparing these last months had finally come.

"Eponine, I don't care what my group's policy on women is; it's time for you to meet Enjolras."


	7. Cophetua Denied

Sorry this took so long. Here's a double-length chapter to thank you for your patience with me. I have no idea how people manage to write E/E - I stuck the two of them in a room for months, and this is all they would give me. Apologies for making this Enjolras such a cold bastard.

The characters originally belonged to Hugo. The painting originally belonged to Delacroix. The metaphors belong to anyone but Courfeyrac.

* * *

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras sat around a table outside of the Musain. No one spoke, although Courfeyrac was humming vaguely to himself. Combeferre tried to bury himself in a book but burned with distracting embarrassment every time he looked at the empty fourth chair that sat beside him.

He had said twelve-thirty, didn't he? It was almost one, and the two other leaders of the ABC were growing visibly more impatient as each minute dragged painfully on. Where was she?

"Well, where is she?" Enjolras finally demanded.

"I don't know. Please, give her a bit more time. You won't regret it."

Courfeyrac yawned ostentatiously. "Your petticoat knows where to meet us, doesn't she?"

"Courfeyrac, as I have told you, she is not "my petticoat." She is a promising mind, and potentially a very valuable resource to the ABC. Her gender is entirely incidental."

"Keep your pedantry; you know that I will never be one to mince words. But if it will mollify you, you may have my apology. If you are satisfied, answer the question."

"Fine. I know that she knows where this is. It's where we first met."

"I give her five more minutes," Enjolras declared. "I have things to do. In the meantime, remind me why I am bothering to wait."

"Aside from the reasons I just gave Courfeyrac? Well, I have been working with her since the end of summer, and just the other day, she starting spouting Robespierre at me! I figured that that would be enough to at least merit a conversation. Plus, the Terror is more your territory than mine."

"Is that it? I applaud your work, my friend, and hers too. Every person should work for his or her own elevation, and it bodes well that our doctrines are gaining acceptance. But we don't have time to meet with every single petty criminal who gets angry and memorizes a bit of some speech, even if the speech is great."

"I swear to you that she's different. You should see her work, Enjolras! She is an angel trapped in the sewer of poverty and crime," Enjolras raised a skeptical eyebrow, "permit me the metaphor – her eyes towards the heavens, but her wings caked in refuse. I can't decide if her progress is a triumph or a tragedy, but I can't _not_ want to help her. We can use her; I can feel it. And," Combeferre glared back at his leader with uncharacteristic fierceness, "she deserves our recognition. I know that you would never consent to her gaining membership, but…recognition. We need to broaden our base. A core of nine young men cannot transform a nation on their own."

"We'll see. She has three minutes."

Just as Combeferre was cursing himself as an idiot and starting to despair, Eponine appeared in the dress of brown challis.

"Aha!" he cried triumphantly, jumping to his feet and waving her over. He bowed as she approached and heard the scrape of chairs as his companions rose and did the same.

"At last, Eponine! You're late, but no matter. My friends, this is Eponine. And Eponine, meet my companions and co-conspirators Enjolras and Courfeyrac."

" 'm sorry." She curtseyed unsteadily. "M'sieur Combeferre has told me good things about you. He says that you're going to change the–"

"Oh, never mind all that now," Courfeyrac waved dismissively. "I'm starving, and you can flatter us after we eat."

The four of them slipped into the back room of the Musain, where a now-cool tray of roast beef awaited them. Eponine ate with grim desperation as Enjolras spoke, pausing only to laconically answer his occasional questions about her experiences in the slums and knowledge of illegal printers. When she finished, she silently hunched over her empty plate, hiding her face beneath her bonnet.

"All right, Mademoiselle," Enjolras was explaining, "we have an idea of how you may be of assistance. Despite the fact that our society is engaged in considerably more…questionable activities, we were originally, or at least ostensibly, formed to promote the education of children. You may be able to help us there. Do you know of any other people, especially children, who would like you be interested in bettering themselves through education?"

She looked up from her empty plate and stared at a point somewhere past Enjolras's shoulder. Courfeyrac coughed pointedly in the painful silence.

Trying not to squirm, Combeferre desperately jumped in. "The idea was that you would run a sort of library for your neighborhood, and quietly give out our pamphlets to those you thought you could turn to our cause."

She gave a little start and seemed to jump out of her stupor. For the first time that afternoon, she looked at his face, her expression almost startled. "You mean, you'd let me keep the books, and give 'em out to people who'd read 'em."

"Yes, that's the idea. Could you handle that responsibility?"

She stared at him a moment longer before she slumped forward and looked back and the plate. "No, it wouldn't work. Papa'd sell the books."

"So we'd keep the books, and you'd be our intermediary," Courfeyrac shrugged.

"You mean I'd run 'em back and forth b'tween you an' the other people? Who'd I give 'em to? The gamins?"

"Some adults as well, but yes, primarily children, or at least people your age. It is important that education begins with children, so that they may learn that there is an alternative to living a life of crime. Plus, we do have a pretense to maintain," Enjolras replied with a faint half-smile.

The bonnet shook back and forth. "They'd sell 'em too. They wouldn't read 'em. Gamins don't care about books. Street knowledge is more important."

"We thought of that, too," Combeferre replied eagerly. "That is where your assistance would be the most important. We would create incentives to reward those who requested books, those who returned them, and those who proved that they truly comprehended the materials. We would need you to watch them, encourage them, and track their progress as best you could."

"Rewards," she perked up. "Like food and clothes and stuff?"

"Precisely. For better or for worse, every revolution in history has demonstrated that progress can only be made when you appeal to the people's hearts, minds, _and_ stomachs, no? We would implement the same sort of pragmatism here."

"That sounds like it would take lots of money." She had picked up her fork and was playing nervously with the tines.

"Well, yes, but we hope that it would be worthy investment. Speaking of which, we would probably be able to pay you something for your efforts. It would not be an easy task, and it might be dangerous, especially once you progressed to the point of distributing–"

"You must be very rich," she said abruptly, staring almost disconcertingly at Enjolras, seeming to notice his unmistakably privileged air for the first time. Combeferre, slightly wounded by her interruption, looked across the table to see Courfeyrac gaping at her in confusion.

Enjolras had no visible reaction to the somewhat jarring comment. "Through no fault of my own, but yes," he replied. "I do my best to put the fact to good use."

"Oh." She began to wring the fork in her hands. "You've been so very kind feeding me and letting me in here, but…if I come home without any money, Papa'll be angry. I hate it when he's mad and I know you would too." Her trembling voice sank into dullness again, and she let the fork fall to the floor. "You see, my father is a poor, honest actor and my mother and sister are sick and if you could please help us we could heal them and they could find work and we could find something to eat and we'd be so grateful and bless you for the rest of our lives and we'd burn a candle for you in church every Sunday. Papa wrote you a letter. Here."

Enjolras took the proffered envelope and tore it in half without reading it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out four golden louis, and set them on the table in front of her. "Spare me your stories."

Eponine stared in dull shock at the coins. "Thank you," she whispered, making no effort to collect them.

"I think, Mademoiselle, it would be best if you left."

She looked up at Enjolras in broken wonder and he nodded back at her in cold affirmation. "Take it and go."

Her hand shot out, the gleaming pile disappeared, and she ran for the door.

"Wait! Eponine!" Combeferre cried as he jumped up, but the door slammed behind her. "Thursday," he tried to call after her, but did not know she could hear him over the terrible sound of her footfalls disappearing down the corridor leading to the main room of the Musain.

"By God," Courfeyrac broke into the charged silence, "what _was_ that? I've seen that face around before, and I give you credit for cleaning her up, but not even _I _would touch her! What were you thinking, man?"

"I – what?"

"Lewdness aside, Courfeyrac has a point. She looked familiar. Is she that waif who sometimes lurks outside the café? The one whose blouse barely covers her...I mean..." Enjolras trailed off and suddenly turned bright red.

Courfeyrac laughed. "What our dear leader means to say is that he's appalled you went for the girl with the exposed tits."

It was Combeferre's turn to flush scarlet. "You think that's what this is about? Me trying to take advantage of some unfortunate? Well?"

He stormed over to where a small illustration hung on the wall – Feuilly's recently finished reinterpretation of Delacroix's "Liberty Leading the People." The essence of the scene remained unchanged, but the faces of the men in the crowd were recognizable those of the Amis. At the law students' urging, the naked corpse of Blondeau replaced the body that sprawled across the front-left corner of the original work. Not a little boy but Enjolras stood at Liberty's side, grasping her fingers with his right hand and holding her musket aloft with his left.

Combeferre pointed violently at the woman in the middle of the scene. "Don't you understand? This could be _her_, if we only gave her the chance. Where you assume a Mimi, I have found a Marianne!"

"Not metaphors again!" Courfeyrac cried. "I'll wait outside until you two have finished. Metaphors! I'm getting some wine." And with that he strode out the door.

Enjolras watched Courfeyrac leave, then stared at Combeferre impassively. "I saw no such resemblance. What do you want?"

"Look, I admit that whatever just happened was a fiasco – it's clear that her father intimidated her into putting on that farce – but...let her come to a meeting. Just let her hear what we have to say, and she can muster support in the slums."

"She was interested only in getting enough money to feed herself. I don't blame the girl, but she would be and currently is an unnecessary distraction. And how can we expect anyone who cannot defy her own parents to defy the king?"

"A distraction? What, simply because she is female, and we red-blooded young men couldn't keep our eyes off of her long enough to pay attention to you? You heard Courfeyrac: he wasn't interested in the least, and Courfeyrac is interested in _everyone_."

"We are a brotherhood. _Fraternité._"

"And what of equality?"

"We must choose our battles. I fear that equality between men must precede equality between the sexes. You've been reading too much Condorcet."

"Enjolras counseling patience? Ha! No, I've ignored this issue for far too long. Men will never accept universal equality as long as half the human race is oppressed. Furthermore, as long as we keep women as second-class citizens, they will be dependent, and will therefore either starve or be forced to sell themselves when their husbands die. It is immoral and inhumane."

"Republican motherhood will never flourish in the depths of Paris."

"And the depths of Paris will never flourish without republican motherhood!"

Enjolras shook his head. "This Eponine is not one of your bright, sweet, innocent beings full of life and laughter and goodness and whatever else you like to go on about."

"I know, but neither is she," Combeferre replied with a significant look back at Feuilly's illustration, murmuring, almost as an afterthought, "Your woman doesn't exactly have a respectable blouse, either."

Enjolras's eyes widened in momentary shock, then narrowed into a glare. "Now you truly _are _being ridiculous."

"Oh?" he scowled in response.

"If she gives you any useful information, I hope to hear of it immediately," he commanded icily. "Otherwise, what you do with your time is your own business, but I want to hear nothing more of this."

"So that's it, then? And what of–"

"_I said no more_."

"Fine. Just…go."

Combeferre sunk into a chair, burying his face in his hands as he heard the door slam behind Enjolras. _What am I trying to do?_ he thought listlessly as an unfamiliar ringing filled his ears. He could feel the Enjolras in Feuilly's painting glaring at him scornfully.

The solitude was a short-lived luxury. Courfeyrac entered the room, ignoring Combeferre's groan as he pulled up a second chair. "All right, I'm going to give you a chance to explain yourself without an angry warrior-god judging your every word. So start talking."

"Let me be. You've already made your ill-informed judgment."

"No. I want to know what's going through that normally brilliant, rational head of yours. I'm your friend, and I know you need to sort out...whatever this is. It's not like you. And you're making yourself look moronic."

"Let me tell you the story of how I found her again. She tried to rob me one night outside of the Musain, but all I had with me were books. I told her a bit about them and she seemed intelligent and truly intrigued. After that, we began meeting in the Luxembourg, where I teach her about whatever strikes my fancy."

"I say you're chasing after the impossible."

"The impossible?"

"Haven't you heard of it? Ah, I forgot; Combeferre struck the exam with his pen, and answers gushed freely forth! With a word, he calmed the raging Enjolras! He healed the sick and brought hope to the masses!"

"Sacrilege," he responded half-heartedly.

"There's no such thing, and you know it. But you're trying to distract me. My point is: there are some things that even you can't do, Miracle Worker. Isaac Newton himself couldn't unlock the secrets of alchemy, and I'd say that girl is a fair piece of lead for you to be trying to bring forth gold."

"And who is abusing metaphors now? How can you claim to fight for the people in the abstract when you scorn them so in actuality?"

Courfeyrac looked heavenward in mild exasperation. He could only take so much sanctimonious preaching before developing a headache and an overwhelming urge to play billiards. "For once, I'm dealing in facts, not opinions. Open your eyes, man! Perhaps she truly is good and strong and intelligent and passionate and willing to help us and so on. Fine; I will grant you that. However, your attachment to her goes far beyond what your duty to the ABC would demand. What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"I just don't want to see another life go to waste. She doesn't deserve that."

"Nonsense. Stop trying to hide behind your vaunted altruism. I don't know what you see in her, but she's a filthy street girl, not the suffering of the masses personified." Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but Courfeyrac cut him off. "Fine. I'll stop. Just let me tell you this: as long as you insist on trying to play Pygmalion, you're making yourself look like a fool."

"Pygmalion? More like King Cophetua, at least;" he smiled weakly, "he's the one who took in the beggar girl and–"

"No, Pygmalion. Cophetua loved who he found, not what he made."

* * *

And so the title finally comes into play. The plays _Pygmalion_ and _My Fair Lady_ are likely responsible for the idea, but the reference is actually meant to be to the myth. My apologies if you were looking forward to reading about rain in Spain, but it's not going to happen (and if you wanted to read about A Little Fall of Rain in Spain, then you're beyond my help, and I'm not sorry in the slightest). The characters are familiar enough with basic mythology that I didn't think it realistic for them to explain the stories in the chapter, but here's a summary for a modern audience.

King Cophetua was a wise, handsome, and well-loved African king, but he refused to marry because he found all women to be shallow and irritating. However, one day, he ran across a beautiful beggar girl named Penelophon on the side of the road and immediately fell in love. He asked her to marry him, she said yes, and everyone lived Happily Ever After.

Pygmalion, on the other hand, was a Cypriot prince who became disgusted with women after observing the behavior of some prostitutes. However, he was a sculptor who was obsessed with making a perfectly lifelike statue of a woman. He became so infatuated with his own work that he actually gave her presents and wasted his life embracing and fawning over her. Eventually, Aphrodite took pity on the guy and brought the statue to life. The statue-girl picked up the name Galatea at some point, even though the Classical writers never referred to her as such. Some versions of the story have them live Happily Ever After, while others say that Galatea turned out to be cold and detached, as some might expect of a statue.

On second thought, "A Little Fall of Rain in Spain" would be a great title for a parody.


	8. The Parapet of the Pépinière

Not that anyone will care or notice, but I've gone back and revised the timeline so that it actually fits with Hugo-verse. Yes, that means I actually will start pulling in relevant events from the Brick. Any chapter now. Really.

Thanks to everyone who's been harassing me to continue, especially the wonderful bigR, from whom I shamelessly stole the idea of using Grantaire's "dreams of a chaste man" line (I'm aware that it comes later but I think it's not too much of a stretch to guess that R occasionally repeats himself).

Blah blah disclaimer blah blah Robespierre.

* * *

"There's no need to be ashamed, you know."

"What?"

He waved his hands awkwardly. "The other day. At the café. It's alright. I understand."

She cocked her head at him in confusion. "What d'you understand?"

"Your father put you up to asking Enjolras for money. You were embarrassed because you wanted to do more, say more, prove your worth, but couldn't. And everyone knows that Enjolras can be intimidating if you don't know him. So don't you see? There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh."

"We'll win the old statue over yet. Just you wait. I'll wear him down, and he'll give you another chance. He can't refuse me for long."

"Thanks."

"Brighten up, Eponine! It's over, and monosyllables will get us nowhere!" He took one of her hands and leaned towards her. "What we need to focus on now is what comes next. You have proven that you read at an appropriate level now; that is good. It was really just a matter of reawakening a skill gone dormant from disuse. I can continue to tell you about history so that you may better learn what we are up against, I can give you great pieces of literature, philosophy, and theory and discuss them with you, but is that what you want?"

"Is that what I should want?"

He shrugged. "You can obviously do those things if you'd like to, but I think it's time for you to put your knowledge to work. You are clearly politically minded, although perhaps more by necessity than by choice; would you like to help us?"

"How? I thought Enjolras turned me down."

"Phaw. He will never reject any help that furthers our cause, once he sees what you could do. Have you given any more thought to the library? That is, the book distribution…eh, thing…we'd find a more effective name for it, naturally."

She drew her hand back to her chest, clenching it into a fist. "You know I want to. I want to help you and your group and everyone else. Only…I can't. I told you that. Papa wouldn't let it work the way you want. He's…not honest."

"Eponine, how long will you remain a slave to your father? He is dishonest, fine, but that means that as long as you are chained to him, you will have no choice but to be dishonest as well. We can _help _you, if only you are brave enough. Move out, set up the library, and you will truly do good; you can make history! You–"

"You want me to leave Mama and Azelma because of _history_?"

"Oh. Your mother and sister." Combeferre rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "Yes, I suppose I had forgotten them in my zeal. I'm not Enjolras; I don't expect anyone to sacrifice everything in the glorious name of our Republic. But even then, when one is prepared to do so, it's so easy to forget that there are others who can be so easily hurt…" He trailed off, thinking of his own mother and sister whom he had all but abandoned.

As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps just reading his expression, Eponine probed, "What about your family? You've never talked about them much."

"It may seem silly for me to say this when I wasn't even able to go home to see them over the summer, but I love my family more than almost anything in the world. My father died several years ago. He was a businessman of moderate means who left us with sufficient money to live but no great fortune. My mother," he smiled contentedly, "is perhaps the most wonderful human being in Europe. Intelligent, talented, lovely despite her age, and above all, warm. Nothing, I think, is ever wrong when she is near. I think she must have been an ancient vestal virgin in a past life. My only sister, Chandelle, is not much younger than you are. She loves art, animals, and novels. I adore her. If she asked me to get her the moon from the sky, I would take off in a balloon with a net and a length of rope."

"You're very lucky."

"I know. More lucky than I deserve to be."

"Life's not about what we deserve. Least, I hope it's not."

"Ah! My poor Eponine! You must sit here and listen to me fret about pamphlets and my entirely too capable little sister while you have real worries! Again, forgive me. I must be such a bore at times."

"I don't think so."

"Well, let's keep it that way, shall we? Forget about the library for now. How about a subject that interests us both?"

"Poverty? Crime? Voting?"

"No, Robespierre."

She grinned predatorily. "What about him?"  
"He plays a very unique and controversial role within our work. He was not, I think, an evil man, but he has come to symbolize everything that was wrong with the Revolution and everything that could go wrong in the future. On one hand, he terrifies members of the middle class who might otherwise be sympathetic to our goals. It is unwise for us to mention him, just as it is unwise to mention Saint-Just or Marat. Deservedly or not, their names still drip with blood. On the other hand, they can be inspiring examples for those who are with us, as you have demonstrated. They gave everything in the name of their beliefs and never compromised themselves to fear or greed. That is admirable."

"But what should I say?"

"Even I haven't fully figured that out yet. It depends, I believe, on your audience. If you are ever speaking to a bourgeois, which is admittedly unlikely, avoid Robespierre like the plague. They scare easily. If you are among radical students or your own kind, they will probably be more receptive to his name, but that does not mean you should use it. We must strike a delicate balance, for we want to inspire a thirst for justice without sparking the fires of vengeance. Too much leads to the September massacres, a repeat of which we can afford neither politically or morally."

"Makes sense, I think. But," she was suddenly tense, "I have to go."

"Oh." This was not the first time that this had happened. "Goodbye, then."

She nodded and ran off, her skirts kicking up well above her ankles. Combeferre sat in dumb exasperation for a few moments before he surprised himself by suddenly resolving that he was going to follow her and at last figure out where she went. Half excited by the prospect of a chase and half cursing himself as an idiot playing at a spy, he picked up his briefcase, made sure that his hat was jammed firmly on his head, and took off at a jog, doing his best to keep Eponine within his sight without alerting her to his presence.

To his surprise, she ran out of the gardens only to circle around and come to a rest on the opposite side of the parapet of the Pépinière, where she crouched down and pressed her face against what was evidently a little chink in the wall. When he found her thus, he flung himself down behind a shrub, poked his head out around the edge, and waited.

She knelt there for over a quarter-hour, her little body rigid, Combeferre's muscles aching sympathetically, before she collapsed limply onto the hot, dusty ground. As she lay there hunched over, shaking silently, he stood and nearly rushed to her side, but he resisted the urge as she pushed herself back up to her feet. Combeferre shot back down behind the hedge, but before her head disappeared from sight, he noticed that her eyes were red and rimmed with tears.

_Poor thing!_ he thought, certain that she had been spying on a potential victim of robbery. _How little I truly know of her life! She is unhappy but trapped by both her birth and – how sublime! – her love of her family! But…what can be done? How have I helped her? _Leaning against a branch of the shrub, he rubbed his temples with his fingertips and tried to stop his mind from wandering down the same spirals of self-doubt that had lurked at the back of his consciousness ever since he had taken on the girl.

Once Eponine's footsteps had receded, he sighed, hoisted himself up, and made his way back around the parapet. On the lonely path there, he crossed ways with a white-haired old man and his lovely young daughter with brilliant blue eyes that were shining with infectious joy. Despite himself, Combeferre grinned, then did a double-take after the pair had passed. The old man and the girl…unless he was wrong, they were the M. Leblanc and Mlle Lanoire that Courfeyrac had jested about so many months ago. They were still here, walking the same route as always! Filled with the warmth that comes with seeing faces, rooms, or landscapes that one has long though lost, he returned to the work awaiting him in his flat.

_He stood at the dissection table surrounded by new students, over a little female body that was completely unclothed but for the sheet covering her face. "Now," he was telling them, "I know that for many of you, this is your first cadaver, but there is nothing to be afraid or ashamed of. The dead are done with their bodies; we use them to help the living." He raised a scalpel and traced it in the air over the girl's sternum, just between her underdeveloped breasts. "The first cut is perhaps the most important, because I know that it is easy to fall into the trap of considering the body an individual before you begin; once you have opened it up, it becomes simply a beautiful and intricate specimen. You must never hesitate, for if you botch your work, you are wasting the gift that the cadaver offers to us, and therefore to science and humanity."_

_"How did she die?" one of the younger students questioned._

_He set the hand not holding the scalpel on the girl's cold abdomen, his fingers fitting gently into the sharp grooves between her ribs, as he pressed the blade into her skin. "That's one of the things we hope to find out. The most important organs to examine are the stomach, the heart, and the brain. This is because a revolution only occurs if…" No, that was wrong. His hand paused mid-incision._

_"What about the face?" the boy persisted, pushing his way through the class to the sheet covering the head. "Shouldn't we see what we can learn from that?"_

_"No, no, no. There is little we can–"_

_"But look!" The boy yanked the sheet back to reveal Eponine's still, white face. "Can't you see? Well?"_

Combeferre awoke with a gasp, his hands flying up to his own cheeks. Eponine was alive, he assured himself, rubbing the sheen of sweat from around his eyes. She was safe and alive…and clothed…

It was then that he realized that he was uncomfortably aroused. _As lascivious as the dreams of a chaste man_, his inner Grantaire laughed mercilessly as he cursed the hot August night and flung himself back onto his pillow. "Grantaire," he muttered savagely. "Grantaire dancing in his underwear. M. Leblanc dancing in his underwear. Louis-Philippe dancing in his underwear…"

Even with such images taking the edge off of the dream, it was a long time before sleep came again, for his mind was back on Eponine. _Who is she, why her, and what can be done?_


	9. Disappearance

_What can be done?_ The only answer he knew was to continue doing the same thing that they had since they had met. The late summer burst into autumn, autumn faded into winter, and Combeferre and Eponine continued to meet, although they retreated into a café by December. Over weekly lunch, seated next to the fire, they talked, studied, and made small exchanges: a thick pair of gloves for running pamphlets, firewood and a basket of food for keeping an eye on this or that watchman, and a wool coat for Christmas. He would have given her more and resigned himself to the status of penniless medical student if he thought that doing so could have driven the unrest from her face, but he had long since learned that anything of value quickly disappeared from the Thenardier residence; she had already confided that her two most valuable dresses had been pawned off, and he feared he knew the fate of the coat and gloves come spring.

But no matter. While Enjolras still avoided Eponine, he had approved of her services as a runner, she was progressing well and seemed to be as happy and healthy as could be expected, and his own studies indicated that he had a great career before him – so long as he stayed alive for it. All seemed well, until, in the first week of February, Eponine disappeared.

At first, he thought little of it. Her life was subject to whims far more forceful and dangerous than his, so it was only natural that she would miss a few of their little reunions. He left a note with the owner of the café, now accustomed to the odd pair, to give to her whenever she arrived.

He checked back two days later to no avail. It concerned him that she would vanish without a word, so after that, he returned every day, sometimes multiple times, until the now-irritated owner simply asked him to leave his address and promised to notify him when the girl came. After a week and a half, Combeferre could hardly suppress his panic. Was she sick, dead, or simply gone? Why had she sent no word?

He had alerted his companions to Eponine's disappearance only shortly after she had gone missing and when they met again, his anxiety had begun to spread to the rest of the group. Even Enjolras looked a concerned at the prospect of losing his unofficial runner when he asked Combeferre for news. When Courfeyrac showed up, he valiantly tried to break the mood, throwing his arm about Combeferre's shoulders and declaring, "Don't worry, my dear Pygmalion. Your girl has been looking after herself her whole life; she won't die for two weeks' separation from you."

Combeferre looked up at his friend blearily, giving Courfeyrac the opportunity to take in the full effect that fear had on him. His askew cravat was tied poorly and dark circles lined his eyes. "If she doesn't, I very well might." He laughed unsteadily. "This is completely ridiculous. Have you ever seen me such a mess?"

"Not after you botched your first dissection," Courfeyrac ticked off on the fingers of his left hand, "not after Grantaire, Bahorel, and I forced you into a drinking contest, and not after you shot your first man in the July Revolution, so I'd have to say: no."

"Damn."

"I know you won't take my words to heart, but hear me out. I approach life on the principle that we should fight like tigers for that which we can influence, but that gives us the right to go along peacefully with the turns that fate throws our way. Fretting or yelling won't change a thing. Why, not two weeks ago, that poor fellow Pontmercy shows up again at my apartment and announces that he's moving back in. After how many years! Did I complain or try to fight the poor boy? No! I simply­–"

"Wait, Pontmercy as in Marius Pontmercy?"

"How many other Pontmercy's do you know? I hope there isn't more of him…"

"Good God! Is he still there?"

"I expect he's staring off into space from my balcony at this very moment. Why?"

"Take me to him! Now!"

"Combeferre?"

"I believe Eponine once said that they lived near each other; I know they're acquainted. What if he knows something we don't?"

"But why would he–"

"Please? My friend?"

Giving up all hope of the dinner that he had been so anticipating, Courfeyrac nodded and jogged out to the street to hail a cab, pausing for a moment as he left to tell Bossuet to have his plate when it came.

Pontmercy, it happened, was not sighing on the balcony but instead hunched over Courfeyrac's desk, so engrossed in whatever he was trying to write that he did not even look up when they entered.

"Pontmercy," Courfeyrac called as he removed his hat, to no avail. "Pontmercy? Marius!"

"Mmm?" Marius voiced, looking up slowly over his shoulder. He had somehow managed to streak a line of ink across his own cheek. "Ah, Courfeyrac – I did not expect to see you home so soon."

"Neither did I, but we've got something important to ask you."

"We?" Marius then saw Combeferre hanging in the doorway. "Oh. You." Using the formal address. They had hardly spoken since Marius had disappeared from the society, and the Bonapartist evidently did not remember the Republican kindly.

"Yes, me."

Marius stood up very straight. "You insult me, you do not speak to me for – three years? four? – and now you would come to ask a favor?"

"Not _now_, Pontmercy," Courfeyrac chided, trying to remember how to deal with these sudden fits of pride. "This may be urgent."

"This is your home, and as a guest I must follow your rules, but I really must object to–"

"Please. Pontmercy. Have you seen Eponine?"

Marius' demeanor instantly melted. He gaped at Combeferre. "Eponine?"

"She is your neighbor, is she not? She disappeared nearly two weeks ago."

"How do you…?" Marius began, then stopped abruptly. "Two weeks ago, you said?"

"Not quite, but yes."

"Oh. Oh, there was a robbery. I…heard about it, you see. It was in my building. And I heard that the police got her family. I haven't seen her since, so she may be in prison. That's all I would know. But her family was certainly gone when I left. It was no longer safe there, so I came here."

"Prison! To the police headquarters then, Courfeyrac. Perhaps the bank first, if she needs bail. Any thought of how much it would be?"

"For a young thief? Not much, I should think. But I doubt the police will see you tonight."

"The bank, then, and the station tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll go to the station in the morning while you're working and sent word as to where we should meet."

Combeferre nodded gratefully, then turned to Marius. "Thank you, Pontmercy. You've been a great help, and I hope we may meet on easier terms next–"

"Wait! Do you know her father?"

Combeferre blinked. "No. Why?"

"Oh…be careful around him. He is dangerous. But…" Pontmercy chewed his lip, "let me know if you find any information about him. I owe him a certain debt."

"Of course. Is there anything else we should know?"

"Why, yes, actually. What did Eponine say her family name is?"

"Thenardier."

Pontemercy gave a mysterious shudder. "That's correct, as far as I know, but be forewarned that they also go by Jondrette, and Genflot, and Fantabou (or perhaps Fabantou? Fatanbou?), and Alvares, and Balza…no, Baliz–"

"So many names? Do you think she would give a false one to the police?"

"I don't know."

"Well write them down!" Courfeyrac cried, clearly happy to finally be on the hunt. "Do you expect me to remember all of them? Two copies, if you please."

Marius complied, then handed the first list to Combeferre.

"A thousand thanks. Will you be coming with us?"

"Ah…two should be enough, I think. I am not sure I can…ah…"

"No matter. Perhaps we may further reconcile later, but I must go."

"Tell me what has happened to the father, and all is forgiven."

Combeferre almost countered that he did not feel the need to be forgiven for an old political discussion but wisely held his tongue. "Good. I'll do my best." They shook hands and Courfeyrac saw him to the door. There was much to be done before tomorrow.


End file.
